He's Probably Right
by PrairieLily
Summary: Greg and Eurus Lestrade have a history, and who better to tell it than Greg and Eurus themselves? Eurstrade universe obviously, Sherlolly in the background. Two chapters unless I get another plot bunny to continue... so complete for the moment haha! Characters do not belong to me, no copyright infringement is intended!
1. Greg

_So, with all of the little bits here and there that I've written in the Eurstrade universe about Eurus and Greg's pairing, I was thinking that maybe I should try something from their individual points of view… a little personal history of their relationship from start to where they sit as of "The Baker Street Girls", "Wondrous Mediocrity", and the other stories in that time frame, and references the Greg chapter in "The Adventures of Eurus Holmes". Also, a note that the sudden revelation that Greg has musical talent is inspired by my very recent "late to the party" Google discovery that Rupert Graves plays the guitar. This story is in two chapters and hopefully explains some of the smaller things for anyone who has read those other stories. For anyone who hasn't read them,_ _ **I try to write my stories to be enough of a stand-alone as to not make the others required reading to understand what's going on.**_ _But if you have, I apologize for the subtle continuity oopsies, I am a mere fan who is plagued by plot bunnies and amateurish writing! ;)_

* * *

So, here I am, sitting in my wife's music room, thanks to my pain in the ass brother-in-law.

I made the colossal mistake last week of letting the cat out of the bag by playing a classical arrangement with my acoustic guitar, accompanying Eurus, with Molly and Sherlock sleeping in the guest room down the hallway.

Or at least, I thought they were sleeping.

So much for keeping that one under my hat.

No sooner were we finishing up Eurus's arrangement of Ave Maria (Schubert this time, not Bach) when I looked up and saw Sherlock standing in the doorway, leaning up against the jamb with his arms crossed, wearing nothing but plaid boxers, a purple t-shirt, and one of his stupid "Gotcha Greg" grins. I'm sure he was already snapping together the way he would rattle off his deductions about the callouses on my fingers and the way I sometimes mindlessly wiggle them as though I were plucking at imaginary strings, whenever there's music in the background.

Then I made the even bigger mistake of admitting that yeah, maybe I write a little ditty too now and then, while I'm waiting for grout to cure and the like. Nothing fancy, just purging boring little tunes out of my system. Most of them sit in the drawer of my night stand, without a second thought given to them from the moment I put them there.

Now the old git thinks I should compose something for Eurus for our first wedding anniversary.

He's probably right.

But then, what the hell else is new? Sherlock Holmes is always right. Except when he's wrong – and even then he still manages to be right. A bloke just can't win with him.

If anyone had told me twenty-some odd years ago that I would fall in love with and marry the psychopathic baby sister of Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes, especially when I was slapping handcuffs on her at Musgrave Hall and placing her under arrest, I would have sent them over to Molly Hooper to find out just what sort of sweeties they'd been dipping into.

It's not like either Eurus or I meant to fall in love, or for that matter, even meet again after Sherrinford and Musgrave, and become friends. But Sherlock just happens to be one of my closest friends, and as it turns out, he has chosen to have so few friends on his short list that the ones he does have are pretty important to him. That list has included me for a very long time. I may not have been the cleverest of detectives in my day, but I wasn't so thick I couldn't see that.

Sherlock and I have relied upon each other a great deal, and his best friend John Watson has always managed to be the zig to Sherlock's zag. I try to be the straight line through the middle of it, and the efforts at keeping those two arbitrary bastards on the straight and narrow are generally successful… most of the time. Sherlock's frequently eccentric behaviour has meant that he's always needed a straight man by his side, and that would be John Watson. So who's the straight man's straight man? Probably me.

So when Eurus Holmes, safe and but apparently no longer secure at Sherrinford, started to transform herself and find her humanity trickling in, of course Sherlock had to drag me into it by keeping me in the loop. Eurus was going on the lam, he said. She's totally harmless, he said.

He was probably right.

Now I'd be lying if I didn't admit that there was something in her beautiful blue eyes that mesmerized me from that day onwards, and the way she would sing these impossibly sweet lullabies to John's daughter Rosie, and Sherlock and Molly's son Will. The woman has the voice of an angel – how's that for God's honest irony? And of course she's clever, far more clever than Sherlock and Mycroft put together. Believe me, that's saying a lot.

She seemed so vulnerable back then, as if she were unsure of where she really fit in outside of Sherrinford – or if she even fit in at all. So she spent time with family as much as she could, and after Sherlock revealed her to me, we started spending quite a lot of time together as well. I arranged my day off to co-ordinate with the day she generally visited.

We spent a lot of time in the cinema, now that I think back on it. I learned she loves mysteries and suspense, the cheesier and more far-fetched the better. She will sit through a romcom now, though that's only been recently, and she has come to prefer the large screen tv and the loveseat in our living room to an actual cinema these days. Letting her steal my popcorn – heavy on the butter and light on the salt – was a small price to pay back then for my clever girl's advice when Sherlock got too busy being a dad to consult with some of the more difficult cases that would come across my desk. I have never begrudged him that role, all I have to do is look at the amazing people Rosie and Will have become to see that it was time most wisely spent.

But I still haven't told her, all these years later, that I never really did like butter on my popcorn. Even now, she sneaks it out of my bowl after she's emptied her own.

So we went on like that for, like I said, twenty-some odd years, getting closer and closer, spending more and more of her free time together, watching Rosie and Will grow up and develop their life's ambitions, at least the ones that didn't involve being married to each other. And of course, Eurus joining in whenever she could to solve cases with Sherlock and John when I needed to call them in for assistance.

I'm not sure exactly when I realized I'd fallen in love with Eurus, but at that point I know she'd been my best friend for years. I suspect it was around the time the new governor at Sherrinford kiboshed her LOA's. They say you don't know what you've got until it's gone, and bloody hell was that ever the truth.

Suddenly, she wasn't there every week anymore, and I found myself missing her with this impossible ache in my chest. I actually wondered if my ticker wasn't starting to give me a bit of trouble.

I was probably right.

But it wasn't in any way that a cardiologist would do anything about.

We still managed to see each other whenever Mycroft managed to get her out for a day at a time, and once in a while I would accompany Sherlock on the helicopter flight out to Sherrinford… but I think at that point I was all about pulling a Sherlock and supressing all of those special little feels, for nobody's good but my own.

And then I reached that magical age and filed the proper paperwork, and suddenly I was Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade, Retired. And I found myself with a hell of a lot of time on my hands.

When Rosie and Will finally decided to get married, they invited me as family. Their Aunt Eurus and I had been inseparable, and they grew up seeing that and even considered me to be an honourary Uncle. But the calm serenity of retirement wasn't sitting well for a retired DI, I was accustomed to having my mind occupied all day, every day, so I couldn't resist the golden opportunity to have a more active role in their happy day. I'd organized investigations for years – how hard could a wedding be?

I was right about that one, for once. It was simple enough, especially since Rosie had no patience for "bridezillas" and vowed to never become one herself. Rosie Watson has always had focus, and has never gone back on her word. But more importantly, it kept me from becoming just bloody bored. As for Will, Sherlock had advised him of the "smile and nod" approach to wedding preparations. He had input of course, which Rosie was always agreeable to, but for the most part, Will intended, just as Sherlock had done on his own wedding day, to "dress up, show up, and shut up." Will and I spent a lot of time together running around London those months leading up to the big day, bringing Rosie's wedding day visions, and some of his own too, to fruition.

Maybe it was the sentiment of the day, but when I nicked Rosie skulking around the upstairs level where Will, Sherlock, John, and later, Mycroft, were preparing themselves, I escorted her back to the room downstairs where Molly and Mrs. Hudson were helping her to get ready. When we walked in, there was Eurus, on a two day leave thanks to Mycroft's maneuverings, and as always ready to tease me.

It might have been that I'd been missing her more than usual what with the emotional atmosphere of the wedding day, but with her standing there in an elegant blue dress that made her eyes a more mesmerizingly attractive shade of blue than I'd seen in all the years I'd known her, and set off by her raven hair done up in one of those formal styles, she was about as beautiful as I've ever seen her look... and I'd had more than ample time to become accustomed to the way she looked.

So, I found myself throwing caution to the wind and just flirting with her.

Things kind of snowballed from there that day.

The rest, as they say, is history.

Oh, except for that unexpected bit when Mycroft found out we'd decided to just go for it, and pulled in the last half dozen or so of his favours, arranging for Eurus to be permanently released from Sherrinford and into my custody the day after Rosie and Will wed. For some reason Mycroft thought that a retired Detective Inspector who happened to be in love with his sister would be a good candidate to take legal charge of her.

He was probably right.

From there it's been smooth sailing, for the most part. I moved her into the little cottage I purchased when I retired. It's small and cozy, enough upkeep and refurbishing to keep me occupied, but in well enough shape to take my time with it with little urgency. I've been bored, but not so bored I'd buy a house that would see things fall off if I stared at them too hard.

Marrying Eurus seemed a natural step after all of that.

Dusting off my guitar after hearing her playing in the room I fixed up for her seemed another natural step. I'll be honest here, we've been having a lot of fun in that room. Some of it even produces music.

I never claimed to be much of a composer but I've had a few ideas, silly little drabbles that find their way to the blank music sheets Eurus always has ample supply of. I mostly only write them down to stop them from running through my head like a broken record. Like scratching an itch.

But, I suppose the old git whose sister I married may be on to something.

Sherlock has reminded me that music doesn't have to be perfect to be beautiful, that it's not what you play but how you play it, and the same thing goes for composing… and in this case, composing is just another way to tell Eurus how very much I love her.

He's probably right.


	2. Eurus

So, here I sit, in the music room my husband set up for me, thinking about my brother's suggestion to compose a piece for Gregory for our first wedding anniversary.

I'm drawing a blank.

Gregory has been known to call Sherlock an old pain in the ass git.

He's probably right.

The funny thing is, I'm not normally so… devoid of ideas, or of clever thought. In fact if you were to ask anyone - Sherlock, John, and Mycroft especially, they would tell you that my imagination has always been a smitch... overdeveloped.

Okay, so more than just a "smitch".

They're probably right, too.

On the other hand, the past year and seven months has been somewhat of a whirlwind of change. I went from being a lifelong detainee at Sherrinford, to being released at Mycroft's arrangement into Greg's custody. I suppose that would put anyone's mental processes into gridlock. Such a tremendous shifting of fortune, and a lot to absorb and process all at once.

I think I know when I found myself falling in love with Greg. The irony is that it wasn't that much prior to that when I wasn't sure I even knew what love was, not that sort of love at least. Oh, I knew love of family – Sherlock, always there for me, and in time even Mycroft in his own repressed way - Mycroft has always been a sort of textbook case of "you have to know him to appreciate him" - and of course, the stifling love of our parents attempting to make up for the time they had lost with me, even though none of that had been their fault directly. Molly, my beloved sister-in-law, and Will, the beautiful nephew whose first sensory experiences were from my hands, my voice, from the moment he was born. I knew the love of innocence, with Will, and my brother's Goddaughter, Rosie Watson. I even knew the love of friends – John, Mrs. Hudson, and of course Gregory most of all.

But nearly from the beginning, Gregory's friendship has always been… different from the others. More devoted somehow, more attentive, more protective… More... _intense_. Our relationship, though platonic at the time, grew closer over the years, until the lines had become blurred between companionship and real attraction. Not that either of us would ever admit that. Will and Rosie, as teenagers had been known to snicker at us and say that we were the Duke and Duchess of the Friendzone, even comparing us to Sherlock and Molly years ago. There's a very good reason why Rosie chose to become a detective – she is very, very observant, and clever in the most practical of fashions, and why Will has chosen a path in the field of forensics science - he can pick apart the smallest things to tell a whole story about them. They were very clever even then, and they probably knew before Greg and I did what the true nature of our friendship was, and where it might someday lead.

I can never quite be sure, but this may have been around the time that the girl on the plane transformed herself. Suddenly, the skies were my prison no longer – now they were my endless, horizonless liberty. Sherlock has a mind palace with walls, and rooms. It's his sanctuary when he needs to sort through the deluge of information he sometimes finds rushing towards him. My mind palace had the solid imprisoning walls of an airplane, but no longer. Now there are no barriers surrounding me - only limitless room to soar.

Then one day, the new governor at Sherrinford put a stop to my absences, and suddenly my freedom to spend time with those I loved the most had been rescinded.

The ache of missing them grew, but the ache of missing Gregory was different altogether from any of the others. It wasn't until later on, after the first time Sherlock had brought him along on one of his regular visits, when I finally pieced it together and realized what had happened.

I had fallen in love with my best friend, and it had required losing regular contact with him for me to realize the difference between what I felt for him, and what I felt for the rest of my family and friends.

On the day of Will and Rosie's wedding, Mycroft had secured for me a full weekend's leave of absence from Sherrinford, and Gregory behaved differently towards me… flirty and gorgeous and irresistibly charming. I had believed until that point that I was immune to masculine charm. But this wasn't just any masculine charm. This was Greg's charm. And I found all of those silly little misconceptions about myself crumbling to the floor, and wanting nothing more than to simply be with him.

As it turned out, he had fallen in love with me as well, and the absence from each other's midst had made the feelings intensify. Mrs. Hudson describes it as "Absence makes the heart grow fonder."

And so, I believe the saying goes, "the rest, as they say, is history."

The next morning, while standing in Greg's cottage living room and taking a routine high flight in the warm beams of sunshine pouring through his window, I found myself approaching a tree I wished to call home someday. There was no nest there yet but I hoped that this was indeed the place, and hoped as always that that "some day" may come sooner rather than later.

Gregory stood behind me, silently, recognizing my rituals and respecting them, patiently waiting for my cue to approach. When he did, before my eyes had even fully opened, he had wrapped his arms around me and held me tight and close, and for those few moments, all was right with the world.

Ninety minutes later, we were sitting in Will and Rosie's dining room, and with a few words from Mycroft about his efforts to remedy the predicament we had found ourselves in, the nest had suddenly appeared in my tree, with a mate, patiently waiting on me to alight upon it and join him.

And then, we were on the helicopter, returning to Sherrinford for the very last time to gather my few belongings and finalize my release.

When Greg proposed to me six months later, it seemed a natural progression.

When he appeared one morning at the doorway of my music room, while I was playing something contemporary that I don't quite recall, he grinned at me impishly, saying something about lemon loaf needing a while to properly cook through, and brought a guitar around from behind him, I could not have been more shocked. In all the years I'd known him, and in nearly a year of being his partner in every way, that was one secret I never would have deduced.

Music has become yet another bonding point with us now. When words fail or seem inadequate or even unnecessary, we have music. Sherlock has taught me, and Will as well, that it's not what you play, it's how you play it. I can only hope that my husband can hear the way I feel for him in my music, as I hear the way he feels for me in his.

And so, my brother, the "pain in the ass old git", thinks that a piece composed just for my husband would be the perfect first anniversary gift, because he knows I have learned how to express my emotions through the notes. He has pointed out that traditionally, a first anniversary gift is comprised of paper anyway, and as compositions are written on paper, with all factors taken into account, and so it seems a perfectly logical gift for a couple's first anniversary.

He's probably right.


End file.
